


Positive Reinforcement

by gdgdbaby, LittleMousling



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Aftercare, Collars, Commune, F/M, First Time, Light D/s, Light Puppy Play, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Undernegotiated Kink, crawling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 10:30:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15459381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling
Summary: Jon will swear, later, that the collar sizing issue really was an honest mistake.





	Positive Reinforcement

**Author's Note:**

> Click on [this](https://i.imgur.com/kTiozfD.jpg) and tell us Jon Favreau _doesn’t_ need to be collared immediately.

They're sitting around Jon and Emily's house, beer-drunk, all six of them together for once, when the doorbell rings.

It's an Amazon box stuffed with a couple of books—"Mine," Emily says—and a dog collar. "Oh, Lucca's!" Jon crows, pulling it out to examine it. There's plastic wrapped around the D ring and the buckle, and Jon sits back down with Emily to pull it off. 

"You got Lucca a collar?" Tommy asks.

"She's been growing so fast, and I saw it on Prime Day, they had a really good deal." Jon's still picking at the packaging—it's too well-secured, plastic layered in tape. 

"You have a dog," Lovett points out. "You have a dog with a whole collar collection." 

Emily leans closer, watching him finally work the plastic off. "That's … way too big for Lucca."

Jon turns it in his hands. Lucca's big—way bigger than Leo, now. It seems fine to him.

Emily plucks it out of his hands. "Seriously, babe. I mean, that's big enough to fit on _you_."

"It is not," Jon protests, and she holds it up to his neck to see. 

"I bet it'll buckle," she says. 

Jon says, "I'll take that bet," tossing his head recklessly, and leans forward to expose his neck to Emily. He knows it's an—error isn't the right word. He knows, as soon as he does it, that it's opening up a choice, something new. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Hanna and Tommy craning in closer, watching. Probably—surely just interested in making fun of him for buying too big a collar. Probably.

Emily leans in close, too, folding one leg beneath her and looping the collar around Jon's neck, face inches away from Jon's, close enough that she must be able to see the ripple of his throat as he swallows. It's a tight fit, but it clasps all the way, and she brushes her fingers along the line of the collar after she lets go.

Jon—doesn't shiver, exactly, but he feels his mouth dropping open a little. Can't keep himself from sucking in a breath that way, shallow and brief.

"Fits," Emily says, half-swallowed, her tongue pink against her lower lip. "Uh—I win."

Hanna clears her throat. "So. What does he have to give you?"

Emily leans over to grab her half-finished beer off the coffee table, takes a deep swig, and says, "Keep it on for the rest of the night."

"Is that all?" Tommy asks. "You should've set the terms before. Jon, bet you—" He looks around for inspiration. "Bet you Leo barks before Pundit does."

Jon clears his throat. "Stakes?"

"You gotta crawl around and act like a dog for, uh, ten minutes. Fifteen."

"If I win, you're walking all three dogs," Jon says, because he's tipsy and doesn't want to have to leave the house again tonight."

"Deal," Tommy says, and then, "Leo: speak!" Leo barks obediently.

"That's _blatant_ cheating," Jon says, but as he looks around the room, no one's backing him up.

"You didn't actually disallow it in the rules of the bet," Emily muses.

"You're supposed to be on my side!"

She shrugs. "Tommy's stakes were better, babe."

"I—" he says, throat dry, and cuts himself off with an exhale. "Fine." Maybe he'll just—do this for ten minutes, try not to let the rest of them see what it _feels_ like for him, and everyone will get bored and they can resume their evening as planned.

He slides down to the floor, ears burning, knuckles grazing the rug, and when he turns his face up, Emily brings a finger to her lips. "No more talking," she says, two spots of color high on her face. "Come here—c'mere, boy."

Tommy, behind him, says, "I'm setting a timer." Hanna, just audible, says, "Make it twenty, he won't know the difference."

Jon would whip his head around and say something, except Emily's sliding her hand into his hair—petting him, she's petting him—and suddenly twenty minutes seems fine, actually. He could stand to be petted for twenty minutes. He and Emily can do some of this later, together. Their friends don't have to know how much they like it. How this usually progresses. A hand in the hair is safe, easy, leaves them enough plausible deniability to get by on.

It feels a lot less safe when Emily says, "Go to Lovett, now."

They've talked about this before, every once in a while, in bed and out of it—not the part where a collar's snug around his neck and he's on his knees, but ... fantasies, about him and Lovett, what Emily would have him do if they ever had the chance. Jon lifts his chin and gazes up at her, and she looks straight back at him, steady and sure. The only indication that she's nervous about this is the tiny tremor in her hand as she pushes it back through Jon's hair. Weirdly, it makes him feel a little bit better about the whole thing. At least they're in this together.

Jon turns his face into her hand and exhales, gathering himself, before he turns. Ronan and Lovett are sitting on a loveseat kitty-corner to the sectional, and Jon swallows as he shuffles over to it. He feels too gangly, all limbs, not graceful enough in front of such a big audience, but Lovett's staring at him with his lips parted as Jon reaches him, sliding into a seated position between Lovett's legs. They stay there for a moment, just watching each other, and then Emily says, quiet but firm, "Han, can you go put the dogs in the mudroom?"

"Uh," Hanna says. "Yeah, sure. Leo, Pundit, Lucca—come."

In the ensuing silence, Jon isn't sure what to do, and then instinct takes over: he leans his head in, presses his cheek flat against one of Lovett's thighs before curling in and nuzzling the soft fabric of his shorts.

"Oh," Lovett croaks, and a minute later, one of his small hands sinks down to cup the back of Jon's neck. "Hey, buddy."

"Good dog," Ronan says from beside him, and something about his even tone makes Jon's breath catch. "Does he do any tricks?"

Emily hums, behind him; Jon doesn't turn to look. "I—he can roll over," she says. 

It is not a good idea, at this moment, for Jon to roll over. He hopes no one tells him to.

"What about catching bones," Tommy calls from the far side of the couch, and Ronan huffs.

Lovett boos him, laughing a little, fingers sliding up Jon's nape, and some of the tension in the room breaks as Jon settles more, lets his eyes drift shut. "That was terrible," Lovett says, voice echoing strangely, as if he's speaking in a tunnel.

"Hey," Tommy says, sounding unrepentant. "You're the one with his face in your lap."

"Fine," Lovett says. "Go to Tommy."

Jon doesn't want to move, but he goes. Crawling is easier now; it feels right. Low to the ground, easy to balance. And Tommy's not far, anyway. Jon's there in a handful of steps, nuzzling into his thigh. 

He hears the sound of soft footsteps pattering against the hardwood, and then: "Affectionate pup you have here," Hanna says, reaching over to run her hand down his back. "Does he have all his shots?"

Tommy scoffs, and Jon jerks away from him, away from the sound and the—it doesn't feel good, that Tommy's being like this. "Hey, you're okay," Hanna says. "No shots, I promise." Her voice is soothing.

He hears a soft sound, like maybe Hanna's flicked Tommy's shoulder, and then—Tommy sighs and brushes a big hand down the side of Jon's face, thumbs tucking against where Jon's neck meets his shoulders, leveraging him onto his back against the floor.

Jon feels disoriented for a brief moment, head spinning, and then Tommy's face swims into view. He's very pink, but his hands are firm when they slide down to Jon's stomach and stroke it through the fabric of his shirt. "You like being petted, huh," Tommy says, tilting his head, flushing a deeper red. "Like belly rubs?"

"Would probably like it if you rubbed elsewhere," Lovett supplies helpfully, which—fuck, it's true, Jon's dick has been pushing up against his fly since Emily made him crawl over to Lovett. Ronan shushes him, and then all Jon can hear is the quiet ticking of the wall clock in the living room, and the soft pant of his own breath as Tommy keeps sweeping his palm over his abdomen.

"Jesus," Tommy says, finally. It sounds like he's under water, or like Jon is. "Emily, maybe you should, uh, take him upstairs." Tommy's never gotten out of the east-coast habit of bedrooms being _upstairs_ , Jon thinks, and then, _oh, he means_ —

"We're all adults," Hanna says, reaching down to pet Jon again, his thighs and his arms, ceding his torso to Tommy. "Emily could help him out right here."

Jon's heart stops, briefly. He turns his head—it feels heavy and slow—to look at Emily. The move shows him Ronan and Lovett, too, both leaning towards him, Ronan's hand high on Lovett's thigh. 

Emily's eyes meet his. She raises her eyebrows, and he finds himself nodding. "Maybe he can wait," Emily says, slowly, and Jon nods again. "Maybe—maybe he'd rather help everybody else out." He swallows. Nods again.

Lovett blows out a breath, eyes darting between Emily and Ronan and Jon, fingers picking at a loose thread on the armrest. "Me first," he says, lifting his chin and shifting in his seat, like he's warring between the impulse for attention and for no one to look at him. Jon's throat goes dry. "Here, boy," he says, voice cracking.

"Go on," Emily says, and Jon pulls away from Tommy and Hanna's hands with some effort. His neck flexes beneath the collar as he gets to his hands and knees again, dick hanging stiff and heavy between his legs as he shuffles toward where Lovett's sitting.

"Whoa," Tommy says, muffled. "This is—a little crazy, right?"

Emily, behind him, says, "Speak now, if anyone doesn't—want to be involved."

"Way to make it sound like a murder pact," Tommy says. Nobody gets up. Nobody says anything else, and Jon presses his too-warm face into the inside of Lovett's thigh. 

"Good boy," Ronan says, and it helps Jon relax again. "Jon—Lovett—open your fly for him."

Lovett's hands are shaking as he does it, and Jon rubs his cheek against Lovett's leg, wanting Lovett's hands on him, instead. He gets his wish as soon as Lovett's cock is out in the open air, fat and hard and making Jon's mouth water. Lovett's hand slips back into Jon's hair, tugging him forward. "In for a penny," Lovett murmurs.

Jon hasn't done this in—a while, honestly, at least not on a dick that wasn't silicone, but the basics are easy to pick up again. He fits his lips around the tip, tastes the slightly salty tinge of Lovett's warm skin, and looks up through his eyelashes.

Ronan presses his mouth to the trembling line of Lovett's neck, leaves a glistening spot there before he pulls back, and then they're both looking down at him, gaze arrested. Jon sinks down a little more, the head of Lovett's dick bumping against the roof of his mouth and then sliding back as Jon hollows his cheeks, and Lovett sighs, drawn out long, his fingers combing Jon's hair back.

"He's good at this," Lovett says, voice high, and Emily lets out a pleased sound of affirmation that makes Jon's spine feel gooey.

"He likes it," Emily says, and there's a sort of release of tension in the room, one that makes Jon's shoulders loosen. He hears a few, muffled "Yeah"s from various places. 

Lovett's is clearer, louder: "Yeah. Yeah, he likes it. We—we gotta decide who's next." 

"I vote Hanna," Emily says, voice silky and familiar. Jon's heard her say Hanna's name in that tone before, but only in bed. Only between the two of them. "I want to see that."

There's a soft sound behind him, and then a squeal. "Uncle!" Hanna shrieks, always the loudest in the room, and Tommy's laughing. Jon wants to turn and see them—he can picture Tommy pulling Hanna onto his lap, tickling her—but not as much as he wants _this_. Lovett's cock in his mouth, heavy and hot on his tongue. Lovett's fingernails catching on Jon's scalp like an accident, like he can't keep from grabbing too much.

He sucks harder, more intentional, jaw aching a little at the stretch, chin damp with sweat and spit. He's making a mess of himself, but it doesn't matter—nothing matters right now, in this moment in time, except for the way Lovett's eyes flutter when Jon bobs forward and back, tongue flicking at the slit of Lovett's dick before Lovett feeds it back between his lips.

"Jon," Emily says, voice thready and warm. "That's enough. Hanna, now."

Jon whines, too turned on to be embarrassed by it. He'd wanted to—wanted to feel Lovett come in his mouth, or on his face, maybe, but Emily wants him to help Hanna, and he can do that. He pulls off Lovett with a wet pop. Lovett turns his face into Ronan's hair as Ronan reaches down to curl his fingers around Lovett's dick, and then Jon's turning around to shuffle back toward where Hanna and Tommy are perched on the couch.

Tommy's got Hanna's arms hooked behind her, peeking over her shoulder, and Jon's heartbeat pounds loud in his ears as Tommy winds his free hand down in front of her to flip her skirt up.

"Take—take her panties off," Emily says, voice tight. 

"Can dogs do that?" Lovett asks, and Ronan, overlapping like he knew what the whole question was going to be before it started, says, "Let's not look any gift dogs in the mouth, Jonathan."  
Lovett subsides, and Jon reaches up to peel Hanna's panties off, Tommy helping lift her hips. 

Jon wants to glance up at her, to see her face. He can't, quite, but he pauses where he is, and Hanna says, "Yeah. Jon—you can."

Jon can smell her, how wet she is, over the lingering taste of Lovett in his mouth. He exhales, short and fast, a puff of air along the pink line of her pussy. Her thigh muscles twitch, and she lets out a low, sweet noise when he finally edges forward and slides his tongue up, gathering moisture along the tip as slow as he can.

"Fuck," Hanna says with feeling.

"He's good at that, too," Emily says, proud, and Jon's mind fuzzes out a little as he ducks in closer, working Hanna over, licking up the seam of her cunt and sucking at her clit. He's getting into a good rhythm when someone's phone cuts through the blanket of quiet breathing in the room. It takes Jon a minute to remember the alarm Hanna set.

"That was twenty minutes?" Lovett says, sounding winded. Privately, Jon agrees—it feels like he's been down here for hours, every moment spinning out longer than it should.

Hanna's hips buck slightly into Jon's face, and he slips his tongue deeper inside her. "I—oh, yes—I set it for thirty."

"New bet," Emily says. She sounds closer now, like she's moved down the couch to see better. "Get Hanna off before Ronan gets Lovett off."

Tommy makes a complex noise, a huffed something, almost but not quite a word. Jon doesn't know what that means until Tommy says, almost laughing, "Go on, then."

Hanna—comes, just like that. Just—Jon's got enough awareness to be shocked, feeling her clit throbbing under his tongue, the clench of her thighs around him. 

"What the—" Emily says, and Tommy laughs, soft and pleased. 

"My girl's got skills," he says, and Hanna makes a smug, happy noise, tilts her hips as if to encourage Jon to keep licking her. He doesn't need the encouragement; this is all he wants, right now. To—to _please_ them. 

"We didn't set stakes," Ronan points out, his voice layered over the rhythmic sound of him jacking Lovett off. "I vote this means—Jon should stay on his knees."

"Ye-yeah," Hanna says. "Don't stop yet, it's—it's good."

Usually, when he does this for Emily, they have to take a breather for at least half a minute before Jon can get his mouth back on her. It's fucking incredible that Hanna can just keep going, that he can feel her getting wetter as he nudges in closer. Jon raises one hand between her legs and slides one finger inside her to join his tongue, and she gasps as she jostles, arches—not far, not with Tommy still holding her in his lap, but enough that the flimsy material of her skirt flops halfway over Jon's head.

He can hear Tommy laugh as if from very far off, murmur something else into Hanna's ear. He's more prepared this time when she squirms and comes again, thighs boxed around his ears, and then she's easing him off with one hand in his hair, fingers of the other drifting down to trace the outline of his lower lip. "Go back to mama, now," she says, looking up and past him, to where Emily is, and Jon flushes so hard someone could probably cook an egg on his face.

Jon resists the urge to try and wipe his face off. He turns to see Emily watching him, fingers playing with the hem of her shorts, and then gets distracted by the noise Lovett makes. During the time it took to get Hanna off twice, Ronan's managed to suck two marks into Lovett's neck and also get his own dick out—he's jerking them both off, meticulous and patient, and grins when he sees Jon staring at them.

"Jon," Emily says, cutting through his thoughts like a knife through warm butter, and Jon jerks his head away to look at her again. She's smiling, head cocked, and she pats her knee. "Come here."

This—kneeling for Emily—this is familiar, but there's the weight of four stares on him, and _that's_ entirely new. He crawls over to her, slow and steady. He's grateful for the carpet, and maybe she sees that in his eyes, because she pulls a pillow off the couch and tosses it between her feet. 

As soon as he's close, she takes her attention back away from him; she knows, they've talked about, how hot he finds it to be ... ignored, a little. To be used, just a mouth or a cock for her to get off on. "Tommy—he may be a while," she says. "Are you good to wait?"

Jon glances over in time to see Tommy shift forward, unmistakably grinding against Hanna's back, or her ass. "I'll be okay," he says. 

Emily looks back down at Jon, snaps her fingers in front of his face. "Pay attention." His mouth drops open; he needs to breathe through it, needs the extra oxygen. His fingers shake against her hip as he peels her panties off; he needs to touch her, to get his mouth on her. He needs her to—he needs her to be pleased with him, and he needs her to just use him to get off. 

Her hand pats at his head. She's looking away, again, but he focuses on getting where he needs to be, mouth gentle on her inner thigh, warming her up. "Maybe," Emily says, and her voice catches. She clears it. "Maybe I should loan him out, sometimes."

Jon shudders, lips stuttering across her skin, and has to curl his hands into fists against her hips to keep from doing anything stupid, like touch himself without permission.

She laughs and cards her fingers through his hair; it must be messy now, he thinks, the gel mussed and useless. "Think he likes the sound of that."

"Pencil him into the google calendar," Tommy says as Jon sucks at the warm bit of skin next to Emily's cunt, tongue moving around to get her wet. This close, he can hear her breath pick up as he noses against her clit. She doesn't hold back scraping her nails across his scalp, knows he likes the slight sting, how it makes him focus better.

"Take your time," she says carelessly, hitching one knee over his shoulder and stretching the other out across the couch. When he looks up to meet her eyes, she's inspecting her nails. Aside from the pink tinge creeping down her neck, you'd think she was getting a pedicure. Jon licks a broad stripe up her pussy, once, twice, and the third time, her breath hitches just a little, enough for him to close his mouth around her clit and play with it. His tongue is getting a little tired, but he likes the ache in his neck, the stiffness in his knees—it means he's doing well, that he's been doing well for long enough that he can feel it all the way down to his bones.

"Jesus," Tommy says. "Is—is this a strictly oral-manual space, because that's really fucking hot, and frankly, you guys too—"

"Thanks," Ronan says, a laugh in his voice.

"—and my fiancee's already on my lap—"

"No one's stopping you," Lovett chokes out. He sounds so close. Jon wants to be here, and he wants to be over there, getting Lovett off. He can hear the slick, familiar sound of what must be Hanna sliding down over Tommy's dick, but he wants to be able to see it, too.. He wants all of them to stay here with him, as long as they want. As long as he can please them.

Emily's hand finds the back of his head, pulling him in tight. It's hard to breathe, but he manages, and he likes when she takes it from him like this, instead of letting him give. Sometimes she fucks his mouth with the strap-on. Maybe Lovett or Tommy or Ronan will want that—today, or another time. Maybe they'll want—maybe Emily will tell him to do more than that for them. God.

Emily scoots up, hips moving in small circles, and hunches over Jon's head so she can speak straight into his ear, cradle his cheek. "Babe, Tommy's—big," she murmurs. "You'd probably choke on him."

Jon's seen Tommy without pants on before, when they've changed in the same locker room, crammed into the same bathroom on the campaign trail, but never hard, and hearing Emily say it, like this, here, makes a zing of heat shoot down his spine. He inhales sharply through his nose and groans, laps up the tangy taste of her cunt and tries very hard not to come in his pants. He's not a fucking teenager anymore, jesus.

"You'd try your best, though, wouldn't you," Emily continues, "You always try your best," and Jon doesn't even have a chance to respond, can only hang onto her as she rides his face, his tongue. On their left, he hears Lovett cry out, high and raspy, and the rhythmic noises of Tommy fucking Hanna pick up, the damp slap of skin on skin, and it's too much sensory detail, too much input on such little notice. He closes his eyes and lets her take over, hands holding her steady.

There's just this: just the taste, the feel of Emily on his tongue. Her hand in his hair, her thigh under his hand. Even the rest of his body is lost, unimportant in the back of his mind.  
Emily's hips jerk, and he focuses down, knows what she needs: steady, firm, not too hard; enough breaks that it doesn't overwhelm her, but not so many that she loses the thread of it, the momentum. Just this is enough to fill his head. Just this, just getting this right. 

There's another groaned cry behind him—Ronan, maybe. Maybe Tommy. It jolts through Jon, reminding him of his own neglected cock. He wonders if Emily will let him get off. If she'll make him keep his hands off and go back to sitting and talking, everyone knowing how much he needs it. Everyone seeing how he obeys.

It feels like she floods his mouth when she finally comes, shuddering above him, hand clenched in his hair like a vice. He holds his breath as long as he can, riding it out, and then pulls back on a thick gasp. His mouth and chin feel slick and filthy, but Emily bends down to kiss him anyway, holding onto his neck, fingers pressed into his hammering pulse.

"That was so good," she murmurs, eyes bright when they break apart, and her chin is smudged shiny now too beneath the tilt of her smile. "You can speak now."

Jon doesn't even know if he has the right words, can't even begin to think about what to say except—"Please," he croaks, raspy and low, sitting back on his haunches. His khakis are tented out at the crotch, and he needs—god, anything. Some kind of relief. Without the distraction of anyone else's pleasure, it's all he can think about, light-headed as he uses the last threads of his self control to stay still.

"What do you think," Emily asks the room at large, raising her gaze, the corner of her mouth lifting higher. "Does our boy deserve something nice?"

Jon can't help the desperate noise that drifts out of his mouth at _our boy_ , the way his dick twitches in his pants.

"You could make him beg better than that," Ronan suggests, and Jon turns his head enough to see them all. Ronan and Lovett are tucked back in, and tucked up against each other, close on the loveseat. Hanna is limp against Tommy's chest, looking ready to sleep. Tommy's staring at Jon like a cartoon dog stares at a steak. 

"He can beg better," Emily agrees. "But also—what does he get for it?"

"I'll jack him off," Tommy says. "If—if he begs for it."

Everyone in the room sits up a little bit. Jon has no idea what his face is doing, but Tommy turns to look straight at him, and it's like his body temperature immediately rises ten degrees. Hanna eases off Tommy, a sort of knowing smile on her face, like she's seen this before, which is—something to ask about later. Right now, he's supposed to be—

"Please," he repeats, baring his neck, the collar pressing in against the lump in his throat. "Tommy, I—fuck, I need it so much, I need you to—please—" It's hard to string together a coherent sentence when he feels so dizzy, watching Tommy swallow as he rises off the sofa. The fly of his jeans are still undone but he's tucked back into his boxer-briefs already, which is a disappointment. Jon wants so many things, and he can barely articulate one of them.

Tommy gets to where Jon's kneeling on the rug, where Jon's straining to keep still, and brushes his hand down to hook a finger underneath the collar, his knuckle biting into Jon's skin. "You look good like this," Tommy says, voice rough, and Jon's lips part, breath easing out of him in a big whoosh, body sagging against Tommy's legs. "What do you want? You gotta tell me."

"I," Jon manages, and stops, too overwhelmed by how it feels to talk with the collar pressing against his Adam's apple. Tommy's finger against his throat—Tommy's eyes on him—all of them watching him—

"I need to come," he manages. "Please, I just, _please_."

"Not bad," Ronan murmurs. Hanna hums agreement. 

"Roll over," Tommy tells him, and Jon tries to, but can't pull away from Tommy's grip on the collar. Tommy swallows, then releases it. "Go on. Show us how much you need it."  
Jon's on the rug, belly-up, in an instant. He doesn't hold back a needy whine; couldn't have, even if he'd tried.

"Look at you," Tommy says, and it could be mean, but it isn't—Tommy can't quite stamp the awe out of his voice, like never in a million years did he believe he'd be here. Jon knows the feeling; he arches his back, whining again, and Tommy bites his lip as he lowers down next to him, kneels on the floor.

One of Tommy's hands comes to Jon's stomach again, palm warm against the gentle swell, the most innocuous touch, and Jon squirms, face too hot, eyes prickling. God, he doesn't want to cry, that would be the cherry on top of this embarrassment cake, but his body doesn't care, too wrung out to stop it. "Please," he says again, bucking his hips up, voice wrecked, a single tear leaking from the corner of one eye. He needs the pressure lower.

Tommy reaches out to catch the bit of moisture on his thumb, hand shaking a little, and then leans over to kiss Jon's temple, just a dry brush of his lips, the soft puff of Tommy's breath across his face. "Okay," Tommy says, moving his other hand lower, palming Jon through his khakis. It's barely anything, and even that makes Jon cry out again, pushing up against the friction. "I'll take care of you."

Tommy's hand is steady on his button, on the zipper. It shakes just a little as he's pulling Jon's dick out. 

Jon can see everyone from this vantage point; Lovett and Ronan, relaxed but unblinking, glued to the scene. Hanna, up on her knees and leaning over, eyes wide. Emily, his Emily, smiling permissively down at him. 

Tommy's hand closes around him, and Jon whines again, _needs_ to make a sound that expresses a hundredth of how this feels. 

"Go on," Emily says. "Look how much he needs it."

Tommy, when Jon looks back at him, is staring down at Jon's cock in his hand like he's lost track of the plan. "I—yeah," Tommy says, and strokes him, once and then again, starting to find a rhythm.

it isn't going to take much. Jon wants to hold onto this moment, grab it in his hands and draw it out as long as he can, but he's been hard for at least half an hour at this point, aching in his pants. The drag of Tommy's palm is a little too dry, but Jon hitches his hips into it anyway. It feels too good to do anything else.

He can't control his breathing anymore, or the wetness gathering at the corners of his eyes. He tries to bring an arm up across his face, but stops halfway there when Emily makes a sharp sound and says, "Don't you want everyone to see how good you are?" he lies flat again, soft noises tumbling out of his mouth as Tommy squeezes him, thumb rubbing beneath the head of his dick.

"Is he," Tommy says, swallowing reflexively, eyes flicking up to meet Emily's. "Is he always like this?"

"When I want him to be," Emily says, sounding fond, and bends over past the seat of the couch, reaches down to thread her fingers through his hair. "Baby, you did so well. You can come whenever you want."

Jon lets out a deep, shaky breath, toes curling into the rug, eyes sliding shut, and does.

Emily slides off the couch, pets his hair. "You're so good, baby," she tells him, and he finds the energy to tilt his head toward her hand. 

Tommy's tucking him back in, gently, and across the room, Lovett says, "Should we, uh—give you some privacy now?"

Jon's eyes slide shut. He doesn't want them to go, but he needs the talking part to end so the—the soothing, the cuddling part can begin. He's already starting to tense, not having Emily close enough, not having anyone close enough. 

"If you want to stay," Emily says, "you can. But anyone who stays has to help me—make Jon feel good."

Hanna starts to ask, "Meaning like—" and Jon opens his eyes to look at her. He sees Ronan getting up, crossing couches, and whispering in her ear. Hanna nods, and then Lovett's getting up, too, coming towards Jon and Emily and Tommy. 

"Can we take him to a bed? Just, some of us are a little creaky for the floor."

It's not Lovett's body, against him, but it feels _right_ , feels like—like Lovett planning, knowing a little about what to do. What Jon needs. 

Emily looks down at him, examines his expression. "Yeah. C'mon, baby. Just into the bedroom."

He manages to stagger to his feet; Tommy fits a broad shoulder beneath his armpit, and someone else's hands land on his waist, his back, and they all move out of the living room together. His head still feels cloudy, and he's starting to shiver coming down from it, but he relaxes when he sees the bed, the familiar sheets stretched across it, all the little reminders that he's home.

Jon's never been happier they upgraded to a king when they moved to the new house. "Pants, hon," Emily says, and Jon kicks his khakis off before he lets himself be laid out on his side, curled up into a loose ball. His knees are gonna ache tomorrow—but that's a problem for tomorrow. Right now, Emily eases down in front of him, palm pressed against his face, and he turns into it, kisses the heel of her hand. 

“I’m gonna take the dogs out, quick,” Tommy murmurs. A big hand traces over Jon’s calf. “I’ll be right back, though. Jon.”

Jon nods, a little; he hopes Tommy sees it. 

Someone else settles in close behind him, warm and solid. Jon only remembers he's still wearing the collar when probing fingers reach out to trace across it.

"You want this off?" Lovett asks, breath ghosting across the shell of his ear. Jon, distracted by Emily looking down the bed at someone—maybe Hanna, if the light pressure that settles across Jon's legs means anything—forgets to answer the question. "Jon."

Ronan's face drifts into view over Emily's shoulder. "Jonathan," he says, voice firmer, and favs looks up through half-closed eyes, trying to focus. "Do you want us to take the collar off?"

"No," Jon says, and it comes out too croaky the first time. He clears his throat and shakes his head instead, and Ronan smiles at him. So does Emily, face like the rising noon sun, and she leans forward to kiss the corner of his mouth.

"Okay," she says. "Good."


End file.
